Vivaldi
by Inkpot satsuma
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. Sherlock teamed up with Irene to take down Moriarty's crime organisation, a fact that Mycroft isn't too pleased with. But Sherlock and Irene are rather content with the situation. Sherlock/Irene, one-shot. Not related to "Rome is burning".


**Hello :) Look what I have, an Irene/Sherlock one-shot, completely not related to _Rome is burning_. Just an idea that popped into my head... Set post-Reichenbach, where Sherlock teamed up with Irene to help him take down Moriarty's crime organisation, and Mycroft isn't thrilled about it.**

**For How Now Meow and Aussieflower, you should check out their awesome stories :)**

* * *

White.

Everything was white, yet in so many shades, from the beaming crispy snow to the smooth, deep hues of marble.

Irene smiled contemplatively, watching the sleeping man in the bed, the sheets and covers tousled with memories of the very active night, and her smile widened slightly as she reviewed her favourite parts in her head. He was such a clever boy… a very quick learner.

The bright sun seeped and pooled into the room through the wide opened window, filtering through the air and lighting up the slumbering Sherlock into the state of absolute vision. His soft, black curls made a beautiful contrast against the white pillow, dark eyelashes laid on those delicious cheekbones, slender form halfway buried in the sheets, and his neck and lips were like the work of Michelangelo's life. She almost purred from the sheer sight of him – she was an aesthete and enjoyed beauty. _And Sherlock, honey, you're pure beauty right now_.

And most importantly of all, he wasn't boring. He was about as far from boredom as one could travel, and then another bus stop further, and she enjoyed it most thoroughly. Being dead could get rather dreary sometimes, especially when she had to stay dead. Oh, naturally, she found her small entertainments, they unfortunately nothing quite so exciting and fulfilling as before.

Until, at last, he killed himself.

He didn't send her a text, which was her first clue as to the falsehood of his suicide. His fondness of himself was another. And the fact that she knew Moriarty quite well, was the cherry on top – Sherlock was clever enough to have designed an absolute emergency, the final protocol, the ultimate way out, whatever one would like to call it.

Therefore, she wasn't surprised when he contacted her three weeks after taking a leap off the Bart's. He needed her help in dismantling Moriarty's crime organisation, and she was willing to give it. Not only for the sake of her brain not going to the waste, but also because she had a debt to settle with him. And most of all, she did _so_ long for someone to play a worthy game with. And after playing with Sherlock Holmes, there just weren't any adversaries worthy enough.

It hadn't taken her long to crack his defences, all of them. He was more susceptible, and naturally she knew that his abandonment of the 'real life' was a subconscious factor for him, offering his brain a neat little excuse to let the emotions get better of him. And they sure did, especially on that hot, sultry night in Barcelona…

She would lie if she were to claim she wasn't emotionally involved. She was, of course – she never stopped. Only instead of shunning away from that fact, she faced it, inspected it and attempted to coin it into as much of an advantage as it could become. An approach that Sherlock apparently also decided to try, at last. She could feel it in him over those two weeks that had passed since the Barcelona night when Moriarty's cute little nickname for Sherlock finally stopped applying.

With a sigh of contentment, she got up from the chair and sauntered back to the bed, running a hand through that delightfully thick mass of black curls as she reached him and sat on the edge of the mattress. The bright blue eyes slowly cracked open, his vision focussing on her and taking in her naked form. She adored that dark spot that merged with his right pupil, rendering it a little like a blot of ink. And as far as pupils went, his dilated promptly in a manner that actually affected her own.

His hand ghosted up her arm, tracing her skin with warm, precisely delicate fingers, and she closed her eyes, letting the touch flood her through and through. As she leaned in to find his lips with her own, he used the opportunity to wrap his arms around her waist and pull her atop him, their bare abdomens pressing together and igniting a sweet, hot ache in the pit of her stomach.

Sherlock wasn't lazy, and he wasn't patient – she'd tried to teach him the pleasure of slow, lazy kisses, but he always wanted more, and wanted it _now_. And frankly, she liked it much better that way – it was her kind of play, after all. She also wanted _now_, but even more she enjoyed the sweet, pleasurable torture of making him and herself wait, intoxicated by the exhilarating knowledge that he wanted her as much as she him, that he craved for her, close to insanity as she teased him with small pleasures.

Presently, his impatience was already trumping his sleepiness, and she moaned as he deepened the kiss, one hand trailing up and down her spine.

"Good morning to you too, Mr Holmes," she purred as they broke apart, and she surveyed him from above, bracing her hands against the mattress on both his sides.

"_Buogniorno_," he replied in a terrible accent that made her snicker. Still, it was her idea that he practiced his Italian, since their chase after Moriarty's involvement in art forgery landed them in Rome last week.

"_Buongiorno, ragazzo bello,_" she replied in her best perfect accent straight from Rome, and he scowled at her.

"Show-off," he accused her softly in that deep voice of his.

"Well, darling, aren't we both?"

"Hmm."

A muffled ringtone of Sherlock's mobile invaded the silence, and the ex-detective reached under his pillow to produce the device, unlocking it with a flourish.

"Hello, brother dear," he spoke a mockingly cheery greeting, and Irene observed him, resting her chin on her arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock listened in focus, and the sexiness of that focus, combined with an onset of small boredom, as well as the fact that the wonderfully teasable Mycroft Holmes was on the other end of the line, gave her some ideas for mischief.

"Mm," Sherlock uttered an attempted casual sound of attentiveness as she placed a kiss in the hollow line between his pectoral muscles. "No, still a few days."

She nuzzled the line, and braced her hands against the mattress again, lifting herself slightly off him.

"Well, that's rather not my problem, isn't- _it_," there was a small hitch in Sherlock's voice as she nipped at the skin of his neck after blowing a teasing breath over it. "No, we'll be getting photos. _Soon,_" he added in an almost strained voice as she placed a small lick on his pulse line. He cleared his throat. "Nothing," he dropped curtly, calling a devilish smirk onto her lips – ah, so Mycroft had noticed.

She continued her small journey up, trailing small, butterfly kisses up the curve of his neck – that delightfully beautiful, slender neck – and along his jaw line, her breasts pressing against his chest.

"Well, we're dead, I'd rather not go back to life prematurely," he sounded tetchy, hence with another smirk she thought she would sweeten the moment for him a little. "Yes, clear connections with Carlisle. _The son_," his voice swayed, growing deeper and more husky as she nibbled on his ear, and she blew a hot, quiet breath over it. "I said, nothing," Sherlock drawled again. "I have a cold."

She snickered and rose, sitting up and straddling his hips, looking down at him to survey her greatest prize and conquest. His eyes met hers, mixing desire with reproach, and she smiled in enjoyment at his inner conflict.

"I'll see. I have his venue for the day after tomorrow. Mmhm," he hummed as she slowly scratched her fingernails down his chest. "Fine. Well, fine. Go ahead."

She raised her eyebrows, smiling mischievously as she pretended she considered those words directed to her, and continued her trail, reaching his midriff. She could see his frown of immense focus deepening with each inch her fingernails traced across his flesh.

"The day after tomorrow, sorry, big brother."

She sighed and laid back down over him, crossing her arms over his chest and resting her chin on her wrists, as she did before, sensing the conversation was coming to an end. And indeed, within the next five seconds, Sherlock disconnected, dropping the phone onto the mattress, and daggering the ceiling with a glare reserved for offensive things.

She watched him with interest, as with the tip of her index finger she brushed the outline of his right pectoral muscle, revelling in the marble hues of his skin, before she decided it was needed to prompt him into speech.

"Well?" she asked, arching her eyebrows to reinforce the enquiry, pinning his bold bright blue gaze down with her own, leaving him no possibilities of escape.

Sherlock's voice was deep and dulcet, a tone that sent some definitely delicious feelings all across her body, and now as she lay atop him, she could feel his slightly sarcastic tone reverberate through her own chest.

"My brother felt it due to remind us we're not on a honeymoon, but on a job," he summarised.

"Poor man," she purred and kissed the hollow at the base of his throat.

"He demands we do something. Refuses to send us more money unless we send results," he spat the last word with mockery that suggested the Holmes brothers held very different definitions of it.

He fell silent, those gorgeous eyes suddenly growing somewhat matt with badly concealed despondence. She made a quick deduction as she tenderly combed through the black curls with her fingers. She bit her lip, and lovingly cursed this delicious man for making her sappy enough to actually do what she had just decided for. And she even had a nice little plan laid out on her head.

She sighed a little.

"Very well, sweetheart. I'll get us some money… what is it, 125 euros?"

"140," he replied on a reflex while his bright blue eyes sought hers with mild confusion. Oh, he looked positively edible…!

"That makes it 280 then, because you'll be taking me along," she informed him, twirling one of his short curls around her index finger.

"Irene… Oblige me?"

She winked.

"Always, darling. Right away?"

"No, you know what I mean," he growled. His thumb brushed against her lips in an unexpected caress. "I… want to know if you did it the way I think you did."

"Well, darling… I know what you like," she smiled, scraping her fingernails gently down his chest as she complied with his request. "The news about the financial cut put you off a little. What can upset you? Not food or clothes or anything daily. You needed the money for something a bit more extraordinary, unique. You don't do clubs or games or want to buy something you'd have to carry when we move – something one-time and accessible only here, then. An event, one for which you need money. The Concert Hall is featuring Vivaldi's complete _Four Seasons_, and their first chair has a Stradivarius. I know what you like," she smiled.

The corners of Sherlock's perfect lips twitched in a brief reflection of her smile, and a twinkle danced across his eyes.

"Now, do you want the tickets?" she asked in a livelier voice.

"Yes."

"Good," she smiled sharply and got up and out of bed, heading towards the table where half a bottle of white wine was left from their last night's meal. "Come," she beckoned with a finger, smirking at him as she poured wine into two glasses.

He sat up, hair unruly, eyeing her without much trust or conviction.

"Not my kind of morning drink," he evaded, pulling on his boxer shorts.

"Do you want the tickets or not?" she challenged him, and he complied, taking an offered glass of wine and sipping. "Good boy."

One and a half glasses each later they emptied the bottle, Sherlock looking like a kid who had too much cake at his friend's birthday party, but that didn't stop his inquisitive eyes from tracing every move she made. She smiled, enjoying his attention and making him a gift of keeping her plan secret – she knew he very much liked the entertainment of being left to figure it out on his own.

She threw on her robe, took the dish cloth and Sherlock's Browning 9 mm, wrapped the bottle in the cloth and placed it on the floor. She knelt next to it, made sure the pistol had the safety on and, holding it by the barrel, struck sharply against the bottle, breaking it. Sherlock observed her like a hunting dog, and from where she was sitting she could almost hear the wheels of his brain turning as he tried to work out how a broken bottle will get him Vivaldi tickets. And he was very adorable when doing it.

"I need a cardboard box," she informed him. "And scotch tape."

He filed the information away while fetching the items for her from the kitchen corner. It was a bit small, but almost 30cm in height and width, it would work even though something bigger would be ideal. She threw the glass pieces into the box and closed it, wrapping with the tape for security. Some wrapping paper would be good to complete the effect, but they didn't have any. She could send Sherlock out, but he wouldn't comply. Not to mention he didn't speak Italian – just yesterday he managed to order himself shoes in a take-away restaurant.

She left the box on the floor and walked over to their shared wardrobe, shedding the robe and browsing through her clothes, Sherlock padding after her in silent curiosity. She tried on one dress, deemed it a bit too classy and tasteful for the role she had in mind, and shrugged it off, letting it fall onto the floor. She flipped through the clothing articles, looking for something sweet, simple and a little bit helpless.

Good. A skirt and a blouse instead of a dress, and a jacket. Sneakers. Sporty purse on a long strap. And a hair band. A simple make-up with an excess of mascara, lip-gloss instead of lipstick.

Sherlock watched her in what was almost a fascination, but she was smarter than to mistake it for being impressed. No, he was just engrossed in what she was doing, because choosing his theatrical costumes for playing various roles was something he enjoyed as well.

Good, she judged her reflection in the mirror as she bit her lips together to better distribute the lip-gloss. The cheap mess smelled like strawberries, it was something she hated and bought exactly for that reason – to play a convincing role. She looked like a lower middle class silly girl with not enough money to buy expensive presents all year long.

"Get dressed," she told him. "We're going to the Spanish Steps."

* * *

Oh, she was good.

So very, _very_ good.

Sherlock watched Irene from a safe distance as she strolled to and fro at the base of the Steps that faced a street of ruinously expensive stores of brands such as Prada, Gucci and Armani, and pretended to be talking on the phone with a fictional sister. The cool autumn wind tugged at her long curls, for some ridiculous reason making him think of a passage from Vivaldi's _Summer_.

He could see she noticed an approaching man – dressed in a fashionable, expensive coat betraying a good financial situation. Pushing fifty, vegetarian, involved with history in his job, one adult daughter about to get married.

Irene manoeuvred in an absolutely natural way, positioning herself before him and walking in the same direction, at a slightly slower pace. When at last the distance between them was minimal and the man was about to pass her by, she turned sharply around, pretending to look out for something as she spoke on the phone, and the man bumped into her, causing her to drop the box of broken glass. All orchestrated in an absolutely flawless way. Second victim within fifteen minutes.

Even from his distance he could hear the sound of broken glass rattling in the box.

She dropped something urgently in Italian to the phone, and pretended to disconnect. With her face brewing with worry, she bent down, repeating "_No, no, no_" in a desperate tone, picked up the box and shook it gently, producing the accusing sound of broken glass.

"Oh, no… it's broken…" even his meagre knowledge of Italian allowed him to understand what she said. Especially since he'd seen her play the exact same spectacle just fifteen minutes ago.

The man was biting on his lower lip, eyes wide open in absolute guilt and perplex.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he declared, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

"Oh, no… no… it was a present," Irene bravely fought tears. "For my mother, her birthday… no…"

"Oh, my god, I'm so terribly sorry…!"

"I was just turning around and you bumped into me, it broke, what am I going to do, I don't have enough money to buy her a new one," Irene spoke faster and faster, underlying her voice with sobs.

It was rather perfect, Sherlock mused as he watched The Woman take the poor man on a heart-wrenching guilt trip… straight to his wallet. It was perfect – a girl strolling near a street of expensive shops, her clothes confirming that she didn't have enough money to buy a replacement for the gift that was just broken as a result of someone bumping into her. With the addition of tears and a sob story about a mother's birthday, the idea was perfect.

With her gusto and believability, the subtly introduced demand to cover at least half of her losses never failed. She also had the natural advantage of being a woman – if he attempted the scam, he'd have gotten either lectured and shrugged at, or beaten up.

After scoring three victims in twenty minutes, Irene earned 150 euros – an impressive pay for twenty minutes' worth of work. Then again, if as a dominatrix she was paid by the hour, she probably was used to getting £360 for an hour's work. Actually, she probably got more. £3000, he figured. And he personally could vouch it was not surprising.

"Come on," she smiled predatorily, wiping away the traces of tears from her cheeks after pocketing her newest earnings. "We're moving somewhere else, there's a chance I'll get noticed here eventually."

He knew he was staring, possibly ogling, close to the point of salivation, but he didn't care. He was entranced, and for once willing to let her know this, see it and bask in it as she liked to, because she deserved that high prize of impressing him so completely. She noticed his unrestrained stare and smiled, playful and menacing, the predatory power in her eyes doing something strange and almost pleasant to his stomach, and she brushed a fingertip under his chin, her nail scraping the soft flesh.

Two venues and four victims later Irene scored a total of 320 euros, all in the time of forty-five minutes. They returned to the study room they were renting, having bought the tickets on the way back. All the best ones were sold out, but Irene had a conversation with the woman in charge of the reservations and managed to obtain them good seats.

He knew he was supposed to thank her, Sherlock mused as he watched her shed her disguise (he remembered her remark about all disguises being a self-portrait, it was a fascinating line of thinking he'd not yet pursued, and was attempting a study in it, though she wasn't a good subject for it). He knew he should, but he was quite lost as to how to do it. A simple "thank you" was far too banal and uninteresting, not only would it feel unnatural for him but it would also bore her. He couldn't find words to express his gratitude best, in a way that would be truthful and proper to the occasion, without the embarrassing stupidity.

"Why did you do it?" he asked, perhaps not quite the best way of starting a 'thank you' speech, but he had the comfort of being understood by her. At least in this situation it was a comfort. Often, it was a strangely pleasant form of torment.

She glanced at him over her shoulder, dressed only in her underwear as she stood before the mirror, contemplating on her choice of three Prada dresses (something Mycroft will not live own once he looks up the positions on their expenditure list, which was precisely why he downright suggested she buys the third one). Her blue eyes were thoughtful, as always shining with that bright spark, and he waited for the reply, looking at her lips brushed clean of the lip gloss.

When he looked to her eyes again, he found them surprisingly soft and open for him to read, though never without that gleam of life she always had.

"I know what you like… and you know what I like," she said with a small smile. "You're what I like, darling," she was a little playful. "I never changed my password, you know."

He didn't know why, but he felt flattered, like never before. Another thing he felt was a very strange urge and the invasion of sentiment on his heart and brain. But, he'd been infected with sentiment for three years now. For John and Mrs Hudson and, for over a year… for her. A different sentiment altogether.

Dropping his gaze to the ground, away from her eyes, he awkwardly reached out his hand to take a gentle hold of hers, examining the lock for a moment.

"I do like the concert," he said, his own voice sounding strange and alien to him, which surprised him, because the words he was allowing to slip out of his mouth were an absolute truth. "And there's no one I'd like to go more than with you," he looked up to meet her eyes. "And… I'd like to go with you rather than by myself."

She smiled, staying silent for a moment, some light filling her eyes, before her smile shifted into one of teasing playfulness.

"Very well, I accept the thanks before it kills you," she said, and he was grateful for her relapse into her usual mocking flirt, because it put a small distance between their emotions, and allowed him some comfort. "Now come on. Let's do a little work for your brother before our date with Vivaldi. Hmm, there's an idea – you, me, and Vivaldi… violinists have such skilful fingers…"

The concert was sublime. The Stradivarius was in mint condition, and they both enjoyed the complete _Four Seasons_. He noticed her favourite passage was _The storm_, and coincidentally, so was his.

Two days later they obtained the photographs Mycroft had wanted. He made sure to fit Irene in her most expensive dress into the frame in one, just because he wanted to annoy his brother.

Two days following, their chase after the art forgers took them to Montenegro.

* * *

**Meh, I feel Sherlock came out too soft and sentimental towards the end. Oh, well, the man is dead, I suppose he could have a small lapse of character.**

**Hope you enjoyed :) Yeah, I couldn't help myself and ended with them going to Montenegro, because if my memory serves me well, that's where Nero was put together. But it's just a hint. Anyway, might do a separate one-shot follow-up about some of their dealings in Montenegro, a little spying and brainwork.**

**I have another one-shot lined up, featuring the wonderful combination of Sherlock, Irene, Mycroft and a pregnancy test. Can you spell mayhem? :D**


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